


A New Way to See

by Kiwikiwi591



Series: Colourblind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Colour Blind AU, Emotional, Feels, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1591775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwikiwi591/pseuds/Kiwikiwi591
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He was even more grateful that his memories of Afghanistan were blessedly grey, saving him from the brilliant red of blood against the dull tan of the sand; he would never be more grateful for it, however, than when he was spared from seeing the blooming pool of red on his shoulder after getting shot. The memory hurt enough without the extra layer of perception to cement it in place.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>That being said, John would never forget when his colours returned, 26 years after they’d gone.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Way to See

**Author's Note:**

> AU Prompt in which everyone loses colour sight at puberty, and it only returns when their soulmate is found.
> 
> Ridiculous fluff/feels ahead. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading!

            John Watson was 14 years old when colour was finally lost to him. It had already happened to most of his schoolmates; he still remembered the look on each one’s face the first time they came to class in their greyscale world. They were still themselves, but it took a while for the look of loss on their faces to fade. Everyone knew from a young age that they would eventually lose coloured sight; puberty took its place.

            It didn’t seem like a big thing back then, John thought. He was only six when it was explained the first time. He could still vaguely remember the conversation along with the faded colour of the crayons he was using.

            _“It won’t be for a few years yet,”_ his mother had said. He still remembered how confused he’d been. It seemed impossible, and he’d actually thought that she’d been kidding.

            He’d still been clinging onto the misplaced hope that it was all a cruel joke for a long time. That somehow, his teachers, parents, cousins, and classmates were all in on it and would eventually give up the act.

            He’d held on until Harry had come downstairs one May morning, crying. He could still remember how she clung onto their mother’s shirt as she begged through her tears to fix her eyes. That she wanted the colour back, just to see it again once. She’d been given a hug, a soothing hand on her back. The only words that Mother had offered were, “You’ll find the right person, someday.” She’d shaken her head, saying that it would never happen.

            Thirty years later, she still hadn’t found them, and John still went stoic at the memory of when his colours slipped away.

            He still shivered remembering when he opened his eyes that morning, finding a light grey covering his walls rather than the usual mint green that he’d taken for granted. He’d sprung up in his bed, eyes darting around the room, hoping to spot some small snippet of colour; a yellow ray of light, green leaves outside his window, the dark, rich brown of his floor. But no matter how he searched, all he found was grey, grey, grey.

           He’d sniffled, holding in tears. His father would never let him hear the end of it, even when it was tied to something as significant as this. Instead, he’d taken a moment to collect the broken shards inside, squared his shoulders, and walked mechanically down the stairs.

            He still remembered his mother’s eyes welling with tears as she pulled him into a hug. It was comforting to think of.

            For a long time afterwards, John missed that part of his vision terribly. Even years afterwards, it would still send an odd ache through his chest to see the sky in greyscale rather than the brilliant blue he’d spent so much time looking at as a child. As the years went by, however, John’s memory and fondness of colour vision faded. He got on fine, just like everyone else. Unlike when he was in school and painfully envious of the late bloomers who kept their colour longer than anyone else, everyone in university had moved on years previous; they were all old enough to have lost their colours, but not yet old enough to have met their partner and get them back. It was easier to forget when nobody else could see it, either. John had settled into quiet acceptance, and had even been grateful for the lack of colour of various injuries during medical school.

            He was even more grateful that his memories of Afghanistan were blessedly grey, saving him from the brilliant red of blood against the dull tan of the sand; he would never be more grateful for it, however, than when he was spared from seeing the blooming pool of red on his shoulder after getting shot. The memory hurt enough without the extra layer of perception to cement it in place.

            That being said, John would never forget when his colours returned, 26 years after they’d gone.

            He’d been walking on the streets of London, limping along on his cane, when it happened. January 29th, 2010. He’d stopped in a small cafe on Baker Street, grabbed a coffee and a bagel. It was only meant to be a quick breakfast on his way to St. Bart’s; he’d never expected it to be a life-changing event.

            He’d stepped outside, looking down as he walked. It had resulted in him running headlong into a man walking the opposite direction.

            “Oh, sorry-“ John said. But then, he stopped. He looked at the man in front of him, and it was as if everything in the world was focused down into that one moment.

            The man was tall, lean. A dark coat covered most of his form, but even through it, John could see how skinny he was. The man’s face was almost unnaturally pale, accented by the dark whirlwind of short curls atop his head. What caught John’s attention, however, was the man’s eyes. He sucked in a sharp breath, dropped his breakfast.

            They were blue.

            John’s heart thundered in his chest, eyes blown wide. This stranger’s eyes were an absolutely brilliant, icy blue, more beautiful than any shade of the sky he could remember. John still couldn’t take in a breath, caught in the immensity of the moment; it had finally happened. He’d met the one who he was meant to be with, the one who would be his everything; the one who’d bring colour back to the world.

            John finally took a shuddering breath, struggling for the first time in years to keep tears back. Finally, he stepped back, looking at the man as a whole. John faltered, feeling himself shatter. The other man’s face was blank, save for the wonderfully blue eyes boring into his own. John thought the worst immediately. He’d heard of the horrible stories before; when something, somewhere wasn’t how it was supposed to be, and in a terrible twist of fate, two people were mismatched. A pair that was forever destined to be one-sided. John could almost break at the thought; that the man before him could be his other half, but that the feeling would never be returned.

            Suddenly, the man rushed forward, pulling John into a kiss. John’s eyes widened impossibly further, feeling the man’s hands rush up to hold his face. The pair of lips pressed on his urgently, pushing and pulling in absolute want and raw feeling. John let his eyes slip closed as he began to return the kiss.

            It was as if his entire life had led up to this exact moment, this wonderful joining of two halves. It seemed like the entire world revolved around them, their perfect embrace. Nothing else mattered for a couple moments; not the people stopping and staring, not the newfound colour of the world. John’s entire world was the slow sliding of lips as he got to know his lover; his soulmate.

            Finally, achingly, they pulled apart. John opened his eyes again, nearly falling apart at sight of it all; the man’s face of absolute raw emotion, the tearful couple of people looking on, the wonderful colour of the world. John laughed breathlessly in absolute bliss. The man looked slightly confused. John suddenly realised that they hadn’t actually said a word to each other.

            “Hello,” was all John could think to say.

            “Hello,” the man replied. John shivered at the deep, rich voice.

            “John,” he said, introducing himself with a smile.

            “Sherlock,” the man replied.

            Sherlock. John had never heard a better name.

            They were quiet another couple moments, just holding onto each other.

            “I can see,” Sherlock finally whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

            “So can I,” John replied.

            After what seemed like forever, Sherlock finally pulled back, still keeping his arms on John’s shoulders. John smiled, and practically melted at the sight of the one his soulmate returned.

            “Would you like to come with me?” Sherlock asked.

            John simply nodded, unable to speak again quite yet. Sherlock began walking, holding onto John’s hand.

            “Congratulations,” said an onlooker as they walked by. John just smiled further.

            He didn’t know where Sherlock was leading them, and frankly, he couldn’t care less. He looked up to the sky as they walked.

            It was a clearer blue than he’d ever remembered seeing.


End file.
